Nobody Has To Know (Gale/Madge)

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None of these characters belong to me, but to the amazing woman by the name of Suzanne Collins.

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"Good morning Madge" my father says, as he sips on his cup of coffee. It is beyond me how he can drink coffee, to me it tastes extremely gross. My mother won't be joining us, at least not for a while, until her headaches subside. We don't have school today, we never have on this day of the year, because today is so much more different from the rest. And it's different in the worst way possible. Today is the reaping, which means everyone dresses in their best clothes and gathers in town square for our district escort to draw the names of the two children that will be in the Hunger Games.

The Hunger Games is the Capitol's way of keeping our country of Panem in their complete control. They take a boy and girl from each of the twelve districts between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete in an outdoor arena, a fight to the death until one lone tribute remains. The tribute is crowned a victor by President Snow himself, the president of Panem. Then the victor returns to their district to be showered with money and gifts and a house in the Victor's Villiage. It's sickening to me, but being the mayor's daughter, I am not allowed to speak poorly of the Capitol. But no one ever said I couldn't think it.

"Your friend is bringing the strawberries this morning, isn't she? Those would make a great celebratory treat after the reaping." My father is fond of the strawberries a girl from school brings to our back door. She is very quiet and soft-spoken like me, many people would think I would be more preppy like the other town girls are.

"I don't see why not," I say. We can't openly discuss where she gets the stawberries from, because I'm certain she goes illegally through the fence that surrounds district 12 and picks them. That's how she feeds her family, hunting in the woods with her friend. His name is Gale, I think. I've never had much of a reason to talk to him, besides the small talk we make when she brings the strawberries to our door. You would think those two are related, with their olive complexion, dark black hair, and same gray eyes. They are from the seam, which is basically the poorest part of district 12. I live in the merchant's part of 12 because my father is the mayor.

"Hello John. Morning Madge." My mother's voice is strained. Probably from the pain in her head, and in her heart because 24 years ago today she lost her sister to the Hunger Games. She plants a delicate kiss on my forehead as she passes me into the kitchen. Her hands fumble for her medicine, a drug in the form of a tablet, in my mother's case, called morphling. She swallows the tablet with a glass of water, I wonder how long it will be before the Capitol decides she has had enough of the drug and cuts off her supply.

"What's for breakfast?" She asks, easing herself into the chair across from mine. Sudden movements will bring her headaches back.

"Eggs." I reply.

"They smell delicious. Did you make them?" As a matter of fact, I did. With my father busy in his study and my mother lost in the pain of her headaches, I end up cooking. I nod and rise from my seat, getting my mother a plate before her headaches return and she leaves for her bedroom again. I return to the table and set her plate in front of her. She tilts her head up slightly to give me a small smile.

"Thank you darling" she says. I return the smile before taking my plate to the kitchen sink and washing it, another one of the things I do, washing the dishes. I don't mind all these responsiblities, it keeps me busy throughout the day and at night I have time to go into my room and play the piano that I so dearly love. I can't play much during the day because it hurts my mother's head. I still have a few hours until the reaping, which starts at two o' clock. I finish with the dishes and head into my room, on my bed I find the white dress I laid out this morning for the reaping, it was extremely expensive but my father insisted on buying it. It's pretty, but I would never wear it on any normal day. My eyes travel from the dress to the piano in the corner, sitting temptingly with those keys waiting to be played. I push my wanting to play it away and sit at my desk, my father has a desk like this in his study, but his desk is a sea of loose papers unlike mine. I prefer to keep things tidy.